Late!
by Rebekah D. Author
Summary: "I said, you're going to miss the train!" she shouted. Peter Pevensie finds himself late for his sister's birthday-again. What will he go through to make it to the party?


**Author's Note: First off, this is a VERY different rewrite of my oneshot, **_**Lucy's Birthday**_**. If you haven't read the original, don't worry about it. This one is much better anyway.**

**Secondly, a million thanks to Igenlode Wordsmith, who approached me about a lot of cultural mistakes in the original **_**Lucy's Birthday.**_** Thanks for pointing them out, and being willing to work with me and my writing! (Oh, and I'm working on that extra scene!)**

Mrs. Ramsey prided herself on being a punctual woman. Everything was always in order when _she _ran the house. That was the reason she stood at the end of Peter Pevensie's bed on that warm autumn morning.

"Peter Pevensie, do you hear me?" Her shrill voice filled the room. "I said, did you hear me?" No sound emerged from the lump under the blankets. The stout woman walked around the bed until she was even with what she supposed was the young man's head. "Peter!"

"Good morning, Mrs. Ramsey," he muttered.

"Peter Pevensie!"

"Yes?" He yawned and lay back down in bed.

"You're going to miss the train, I tell you!"

"Whatever you say, Mrs. Ramsey." He rolled over and snuggled up again. "Whatever you say."

"I said, you're going to miss the train!" she shouted. "It is nine-thirty, Peter! If you don't catch the ten o'clock train, you are never going to be home by two!"

"Nine thirty!" Peter jumped to a sitting position, struggling to untangle himself from the sheets. "Why didn't you call me earlier?"

"I did!" the woman huffed. "I've been shouting since seven o'clock." She turned and waddled back down the stairs to the kitchen. Peter dressed quickly.

_ I am not going to be late for Lucy's birthday, _he thought. _Not again._

He threw his clothes into his knapsack rapidly and dashed down the stairs. Mrs. Ramsey stood before the fireplace, stirring something in a pot.

"I need to go, Mrs. Ramsey. Thank you so much for your hospitality." He swung his bag over his shoulder and turned to leave the room.

"Oh, no, you don't, young man!" The woman plopped a bowl down on the table. "No one leaves my house hungry."

"But, Mrs. Ramsey…" he tried to protest, but she waved the spoon with a look that made Peter stop in his tracks. He sighed and took his seat at the table. How had he gotten to this? The man who used to be a High King was taking orders from a farmer's wife. He gulped down the porridge, attempting to keep it all down in the process. Mrs. Ramsey was a fine woman, but her cooking abilities were seriously lacking.

He eyed the clock. The minute hand ticked by faster than he thought possible while he hurriedly finished his oatmeal.

"Thank you so much!" He pushed his bowl away and dashed out the door in what seemed to be one fluid motion.

"Have a safe trip!" Mrs. Ramsey shouted after him.

Peter reached the railway station just in the nick of time. It was ten o'clock on the dot.

The station, however, was strangely silent. There was no sign of anyone—not the train, the passengers—even the booking clerk seemed to be absent. He settled down on the rickety wooden bench, hoping against hope that the train was merely delayed by minutes.

Five minutes passed. A farmer driving a hay wagon passed with a nod.

Five more minutes and still no sign of anyone. Peter could no longer sit still. He paced back and forth on the station platform.

Another ten minutes had passed before the young man saw a little girl walking down the unmade tracks by the station.

"Hello, little girl," Peter hurried down the stairs and rushed towards her. "Do you know where I could find the station master?" The little girl stared at him, her eyes wide open. Peter watched as her face slowly scrunched up and she wailed.

"Mum!" A young-looking mother ran out from a doorway across the street.

"What happened, Elizabeth? Are you alright?" The little girl ran to her mother.

"I'm sorry," Peter said. "I didn't mean to scare her. I just wanted to ask her for directions."

"Elizabeth knows not to talk to strangers," the mother smiled. "How can I help you?"

"Would you happen to know where I could find the station master? It seems the train is late and no one is to be seen at the station."

"The last house on the left," the lady gestured. "Just go round the back. He will most likely be in the garden."

"Thank you." Peter walked around to the back of the house the young mother had pointed out. He swung open the gate and walked inside.

"Hello?" He peered around the side of the house. From a clump of flowers at the other side of the lawn emerged a man's head, followed by his shoulders.

"Hello, young man." He pulled off his gardening gloves and moved slowly towards the porch. "Were you looking for me?"

"I was. What happened to the train?"

"Funny thing there." The old man ambled up the porch stairs, Peter close behind him. "Care for some lemonade?"

"No, thank you."

"Things certainly have changed since my day." The man reached for a pair of spectacles on the table and peered through them at Peter. "When I was young, we didn't refuse what people offered us. We were thankful when somebody offered us a cold drink on a day like this. Sit down. I'm going to make us some lemonade."

"But…" Peter tried to argue, but the man paid him no heed. He gestured at a chair and slowly walked inside. The young man slumped into the seat and hoped that he could be on his way soon.

Ten minutes later, the older man finally returned, a glass of lemonade in each hand. He handed one to Peter and slowly settled himself down on another chair.

"You know, it's not often I have visitors nowadays," he said. "Of course Henry comes home when he's not busy at the railway station or helping out in the store. Other than him, you are my first guest this week."

"Henry? Who is he?"

"He's my son." The old man drew himself up proudly. "I was the booking clerk for nigh on thirty years, and now he's taking over. The chair in that ticket window just isn't too comfortable for these rickety old bones."

"Where could I find Henry?" Peter could not resist interrupting before the old man began to ramble again. "I need to find out what happened to the train."

"Oh, you never know where that boy might be. At the shop, maybe, or the station. Though…" He raised a finger to stop the younger man from interrupting. "I can tell you what happened to the train. Old Widow Penworthy got her hay wagon stuck over the line. It happens sometimes."

"How soon will they get it off the line?"

"It depends." The old man shrugged. "If it's just her and that no-good stepson of hers, why, it might be off the track by tomorrow. Tonight, even, if they're lucky."

"Oh, no!" Peter leaped off his chair, slamming his lemonade down on the windowsill. "I have to be in Finchley in three hours! Goodbye!"

"Well, you aren't going to get there by shouting like that!" The old man waved his finger. "I'll tell you what you can do. Go down to the shop. Somebody or other's always stopping in there. You might just be able to catch a ride to the next junction in time to catch the train."

"Thank you so much!"

"Good luck!" the old man shouted as Peter dashed around the corner of the house. He settled down into his rickety old chair and shook his head. "Makes me wonder what they teach in schools these days."

Peter _did _manage to hitch a ride from someone in the shop—that someone just happened to be a farmer with his tractor and trailer driving a load of manure out to his fields. The young man settled down into the seat of the tractor, trying to be thankful that he wasn't walking.

The farmer attempted to converse the entire drive, but the constant chug of the motor made conversation nearly impossible. Peter continued to hope against hope that he would be on time to catch the train.

Relieved to be just in time, he hurried down from the tractor, shouting a hurried "Thank you!" to the waiting farmer. The farmer grinned and raised his hand in farewell, saying something Peter could not hear over the combined noise of the train and the tractor.

The young man hurried over to the train.

"Is there room still?" he asked the guard, who was about to enter the train himself.

"Depends if you have a ticket." The guard frowned as he inhaled the pungent aroma that surrounded Peter. "And your smell doesn't quite convince me."

"I do." Peter searched through his pockets, then through his bag. The older man waited impatiently. "I did. I seem to have lost it."

"Lost it?" The guard moved as if to step into the train. "Then you are not getting on the train, young man."

"Please just wait a minute!" Peter pleaded, searching again. "I'll find it. I have gone through so much to miss this train. I'm not missing it now. Aha!" The young man pulled the crumpled ticket from his bag. "I had left it in my pocket yesterday."

The guard rolled his eyes. "Just get on board. We're already running ten minutes late."

"Yes, sir!" Peter grinned. He hurried to find his seat, ignoring the annoyed stares his fellow-travelers gave him. Being on the train was enough, regardless of his smell.

"Peter!" Lucy dashed out of the house and embraced her brother, nearly knocking him to the ground. She wore her hair in an elaborate fashion that, along with her regal gown, made her look much older than her fourteen years.

"You're late." Susan walked up behind her sister and smiled. "What happened to you?"

Peter knew he must be a mess—his hair mussed and smelling like manure—but he just smiled. "I made it. That's what matters."

"Go and wash." Su held her nose at her brother's smell. "Hurry. Our guests are waiting."

When High King Peter of Narnia walked down the parlor stairs, his eyes met a gathering not unlike those he had seen in Narnia. Young ladies wearing long ball gowns with wreaths in their hair paraded on the arms of pages, knights, and occasional kings.

He himself was dressed as a king, with a long cloak and a crown on his head. Susan waited for him at the bottom of the stairs.

"High King Peter, what a pleasure to make your acquaintance again." She curtsied.

"Thank you, Queen Susan the Gentle." They joined the party, arm in arm, until they met with Eustace, sitting at a table and sipping his drink as though he really were a knight-in-arms. Susan left them then, going to join her friends in another corner of the room. Eustace leaped to his feet and bowed.

"Peter! Or shall I say, High King Peter?"

"Eustace!" Peter clasped his cousin's hand. "So it's true, you went to Narnia."

"I did," the younger boy admitted. He looked his cousin up and down. "So this is how you look in Narnia."

"Somewhat like this. The sword is tin, though."

"Not at all like Rhindon. Now _that _is a sword. You should see Edmund wielding it."

"I wish I could," Peter agreed wistfully.

"I want you to tell me all those old tales," Eustace insisted. "I want to know more about Narnia." Peter was about to agree when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

"Oh, no you don't, King Peter!" Lucy stood behind him, a childish pout on her face. "You still owe me something."

"Come on, Lu, can't it wait?" he pleaded playfully. "Eustace and I were just talking about Narnia."

"You can talk about Narnia tomorrow. My birthday is today."

"Alright." Peter grinned. "What will you have, a dance or a tickle party?"

"A tickle party! Don't you think I am a little too old for that now, Peter?"

"Once a ticklish little sister," he insisted, "always a ticklish little sister."

"Pete!" Lucy dashed out on the dance floor, trying to avoid her brother's flying fingers. "Stop it! Stop it!"

Peter dashed after her, trying to avoid colliding with anyone. He caught Susan's eye just as she gave him the look of, "Children!" He ignored her and continued the chase.

He cornered her in her own bedroom. Within moments, the king and queen of Narnia who used to rule an entire kingdom were on the floor, squirming like the children they were. Lucy scrambled under the bed, emerging on the other side with dust-bunnies in her hair. Peter tried to stand and follow, but he hit his head hard on the bottom side of the bed. Lucy ran around the bed and pounced on him. This time, she tickled until he was the one pleading for mercy.

"Stop, Lu, stop!" Lucy sat back on the floor while her older brother sat up, rubbing his head.

"I win!" she insisted. "Now, you owe me a present."

"I do. Close your eyes," Peter said.

When Lucy opened the package that was slipped into her hands, happy tears threatened to spill from her eyes. She fingered the brooch and whispered, "Oh, Peter!"

A lion gazed at her from the front of the brooch. As Peter silently left the room, Lucy held the gift close to her heart. She could almost hear the heartbeat of the lion; feel its warm breath on her face. It was then she knew.

Come what may, she would _always _be a queen of Narnia.


End file.
